Creative Writing Drabbles
by OnyxDay
Summary: Short stories that I've written in my Creative Writing class. Mostly Cas POV, though there's some Dean and maybe Sam POV.
1. My Wings Fly

**This is the first of a set of drabbles I wrote in Creative Writing at school. Mostly Cas POV. Enjoy!**

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With a thought I can fly. Open my wings and soar. I like flying, soaring, floating. I am free when I fly, no ground beneath my feet, only the open sky around me. The wind runs fingers through my hair, rustles the feathers of my wings. I love my wings. Black, blue, brown, purple, like a bruise. Two giant soft bruises protruding from my back. I can flap them, propel myself higher. I can glide in a slipstream, or plummet to the ground before snapping them open and halting my momentum. The others laugh at my wings, but what do they know? Their wings are white, silver, gold, tan, far too bright. Their wings have no character, no life, nothing. Their wings follow the rules, they're monotone. They have no soul, they're objects, tools for flight. My wings are my best friends, they keep me in the sky, they help me. Flying keeps me free, my wings keep me safe.

I've only ever shared my wings once with someone outside my brothers and sisters. They called them beautiful, majestic, amazing, perfect, all without saying a word. Without gestures. They conveyed everything with eyes, eyes that spelled love. Those eyes can tell me anything. And when they fly with me in my arms, those eyes become my eyes. They tell me what they see, where to go, when to dive. When I fly, I feel free, and those eyes become mine.

Those eyes become freedom.


	2. Falling with Free Will

Falling is just like flying (but with a more permanent destination).

i suppose that might be true for some, but falling is nothing like flying. Flying is freedom, falling is the cage being slammed shut and the door locking behind you. I can't fly anymore. My wings have been cut off, and the only thing I have to show for it is two bleeding holes where they once belonged. My wings were taken, and witH them my Grace. Now the only thing i have left is free will, but free will is just a length of rope and Gad wants you to hang yourself with it. Free will is not a gift, it is not good, or beautiful. Free will is making the wrong decisions and having to deal with them yourself. Free will is deciding to drink your coffee too soon and burning your mouth. Free will is choosing where you want to go, but not having the means to get there. Free will is Hell, and we are all damned.

My wings are gone, and they took the eyes with them. When those eyes, eyes that once held nothing but love, look at me now, all it can see is sadness. I want those eyes back, but they will not look at me anymore. Where did they go? My freedom has been taken and been replaced by a poor substitute. I have fallen, and my wings cannot help me anymore. My best friend has been taken from me.


	3. October Chills

Days start getting colder in October. The cold feels more prevalent this year. The chill seeps in through the layers of clothing I now wear. My threadbare trench coat does nothing to keep me warm, the wind buffeting around me. I have been given a hat by a kind old woman who believed me homeless. I suppose that would be an accurate description. Without my wings, I no longer feel at home in my own body. I feel trapped, and I only wish that I could run away. That's what I'm doing. Running. That's why I have not returned to the closest thing I have to a home. The eyes waiting for me feel cold, though I have not see them for some time, not since the loss of my wings. I wish I had the courage to return, but I dread the sight that could greet me.

moving from place to ace has become difficult now that my wings are gone. I must rely on strangers for rides, hopping from car to car, truck to truck. They take me closer to my destination in small bursts, town to town. Slowly I am making my way across the states, hoping to find the courage to reach the destination I have in mind. A few kind souls have given me clothing and money for food, though they are few and far between. I only hope it will be enough to get me to my destination, for I know that I will receive a warm bed, food, and clothing once I get there. At least, I hope so. I can not be sure of the response I will receive. When I was last there the eyes were so cold. I hope they will be warmed by the time I get back, this month is already cold enough, I do not think my heart could take that kind of chill.


	4. Drop Out

**This was a prompt my teacher gave me. 'Describe the room of a person getting ready to drop out of school.' I was partially inspired by Twist and Shout, so beware.**

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The room is messy. Books laying haphazardly on the desk, papers crumpled and thrown around the room, a book bag spilled across the floor. He's sitting on his bed, over in the far corner of the room, one side pushed against the wall underneath the window. His dark blue covers are wrinkled and heaped up on the bed, his pillow, the same dark blue as the sheets, is resting in his lap. His bare feet are curled under his body, his socks and shoes still on the floor where he kicked them off. His left hand reaches up to card through his dark hair as his wide blue eyes drift across the room.

They flit across his Elvis poster, hanging above his desk, pencils and papers still there from doing homework last night. They drift over to his walk-in closet, clothes hung up neatly; jackets in the front, pants and shoes in the back. Some of his clothes are on the floor, and he absently thinks that he should hang them back up. His bedroom door is closed from where he slammed it, a Zeppelin poster he got as a gift covering some of the light brown paint.

Next his eyes look to his wall of books, and he skins over the authors. Voltaire. Vonnegut. Kerouac. Tolkien. Lovecraft. Not the types of books a guy who's about to drop out would read. His eyes ghost over to his favorite reading char, the faded blue fabric tearing in places, letting the stuffing out.

He then rests his eyes on his bedside table. His dark blue lamp casts a dim light on the room, but it's enough for him to see the picture kept beside his alarm clock.

He was smiling in the picture, his eyes crinkled at the edges. His arm was around another boy, his short dark blonde hair spiked up in the front, his green eyes locked on the camera, beaming with perfect white teeth. He paused at this, not wanting to see what he knew he would find next, but his eyes, unbidden, move lower.

The letter sits there, opened, the words mocking him.

Dead.

That's what the words mean, no matter what the synonyms they used. So he decided he was dropping out. He couldn't handle the pitying gazes his classmates would give him. He couldn't look at the familiar hallways and know that he would never see him rounding the corner, or standing by his locker. So he would drop out and just drive, maybe if he went far enough he could out run the memories. Out run the ghosts.

So, with all the finality a young man dropping out of college could muster, he stood up, feeling his dark brown carpet on the bottom of his feet. He took one last look at his light blue walls, picked up his black duffle bag and swung it over his shoulder. He shoved his feet back into his boots, picked up his keys, and (as a last minute thought) grabbed the picture on his desk. Then he left his room and closed the door, leaving his apartment for the last time. A note rested on his sheets where he sat only a moment before.


	5. Return from War

**This is also Twist and Shout based. Sorry? ****Dean's POV.  
**

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He boards the plane, his duffle swung over one shoulder, dress uniform scratching against his skin as he walks. He requests an isle seat, plane-induced nausea already settling in his stomach. He's always hated flying, that's why he drove everywhere when he was in the States. Though, if he's being honest, he's not entirely sure the plane is the only cause for his nerves. He knows that his family will be waiting for him when he returns, his brother and sister-in-law with their baby girl. He's only seen a few pictures, which he kept in his helmet along with the only picture of his beloved he owned.

Reaching into his pocket he retrieves the Polaroid and studies the faded picture. It's difficult to make out the features in the picture, but he had long-ago memorized the subject matter.

He's jarred out of his reverie by the plane landing at the terminal. He un straps himself from the seat and stands, grabbing his duffle front he overhead compartment. He follows the other returning soldiers as they walk through the tunnel. The light from the fluorescents momentarily blind him and he blinks to clear his vision. He can hear the sounds of his fellow soldiers reuniting with their wives, girlfriends, or families. He scans the crowd as he walks, searching for the familiar sight of his brother looming over everyone's heads.

Someone shouts his name and he turns, grinning as he sees his brother waving at him. He runs over and hugs his brother tightly, grinning at his sister-in-law. He turns and sees him. His angel. He picks him up and twirls him, kissing him despite the looks of those around them.

"I love you, Cas."


	6. Green Eyes

Green. But not just any green, the greenest green I have ever seen. Sunlight through a blade of grass. The bright green of a canopy of leaves mid-summer. Sometimes, when they're sad, they look like a field after it rains, the green more subdued, shot-through with brown. And when they're angry, dark green so dark they're almost black. I hate this green, especially when directed at me, which it often is. I wish I could be the sun, to brighten those eyes. But my eyes, stormy blue like the sea, only dampen them, muddy them. They're sad when they look at me, and I know why.

Guilt. The guilt I bring to those eyes kills me, because they should not be burdened by that guilt. It is mine, and mine alone, to carry. Green is made to be bright, to make you think of lazy summer days laying in a field, sunlight dappling your skin. Green is happy. But blue, blue is meant to be sad. That's why they call it 'feeling blue'. I want to take the blue from those eyes and welcome it into my own, but I know they will not let me. They will not stay happy.


	7. The Only Picture

**Dean's POV. **

* * *

This is the only picture we have of just us. There's nothing special about it, not even much of a story. My brother wanted to get a picture taken, he's sentimental like that. I fought against it of course, no point in wasting money we don't have on a stupid picture. But, well, he's a stubborn one. And I never could say no to his puppy-dog eyes.

He's in the middle, grinning like nobodies business. Me and my best friend are on either side of him, neither of us are too happy about it. He's got his small, shy smile, and I'm just smiling for my brother's sake. It turned out okay, so at least there's that. I think my brother kept it in his room for a while.

Nobody knows this, and if you tell anyone I'll have to kill you, but me and my best friend are holding hands behind my brother's back. I don't think he noticed, and if the photographer did, he never said anything. I don't really talk about things like that. I don't talk about anything except my job and my family. Not much to talk about if you ask me. What I feel, and what he may or may not feel, is no one's business but ours.

So what if I love the guy? I'm not good enough for him anyways.


	8. Last time I saw him

**Dean's POV. Wrote this last year, so whenever he says 'next year' it means 2014. Yeah, End!verse.**

* * *

The last time I saw him was months ago. He had changed a lot since then, he stopped shaving, his hair was longer, and he was smiling. I think in all the years I've known him he's smiled twice. The few smiles I've seen from him have been tight, like he's worried he'll be punished for smiling at all. But this smile... This smile's different. But not new. This smile's relaxed, full of teeth and gums. This is the type of smile accompanied by twinkling eyes, though his dark blue eyes are dead. I've only seen this smile once before, years ago, but next year. The memory of a smile I saw next year sends shivers down my spine, fear creeping up on me. He's sitting there, smiling, and I flash back to scene that hasn't happened yet, hopefully won't happen. I hoped, nearly prayed, that I had stopped that maybe-future, but this smile, **this **smile was nearly proof that I hadn't. The glazed over look in his normally bright eyes didn't help either. He continues to smile at me as my heart grows heavier and colder. My brother's voice floats back to me, carrying Lucifer's words.

"Whatever you do, you will always end up... here. No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, **we **will always end up... Here."


	9. White Blank Page

He looks over, sees the long brown hair fanning across her pillow, the dark lashes resting on her rosy cheeks. He sighs and turns his head so that he can look at the ceiling, to her room, in her house, on her street, in her town. He takes a deep breath and, with one last glance to her sleeping form, slips out of the bed. He's careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards, stepping lightly to make sure she stays asleep. He carefully leaves her room and makes his way down the hall to the office. Hers, though he's taken to staying in there whenever he needs time to himself.

He sinks into the office chair and turns on the lamp. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and he's left blinking away spots. When he's able to see again he carefully opens the desk drawer, pulling out a clean sheet of paper. He grabs a pen and clicks it open hovering the nib over the paper.

"Where the hell do I even begin?" He mumbles to himself.

he clicks the pen again and rests his head in his hands? There's so many things he needs to say, so many things he wanted to say. He lifts his head up and picks up the pen again. He carefully sets it against the paper and begins to write, intent on getting out all the words he never got to say before.

_Hey._

_I'm sorry. For what I did, for what you had to do, for everything. Well, maybe not everything._

_Look, you know I'm not that great with words. Never have been, never will be. Not when it counts. I screw things up, I screwed us up, because I'm afraid. I'm afraid that if I let myself lo- care about someone, I'll get them hurt. I was foolish, and rash, and I'm so, so sorry._

_I loved you. Still do, if I'm being honest. And that scared me. Still scares me a bit now, but I can't lie anymore. Not to you, or myself, or Cassa. Cassandra Lewis. Yeah, guess I've got a type. She's nice, understands that I've been through a lot, that I need my space. But I don't, not really. There's enough space between you and me to last a lifetime. And not mine._

_I love you. God help me, but I do. And it's not fair, to any of us, to keep denying that. Cassa deserves the truth, and so do you. I love her, but it's not the same. She doesn't know how dirty I am, doesn't know every inch of my soul, can't look at me and just **know**. Not like you. And I miss you, so much. Please, just... Please.  
_

_I love you, - - - - - - -_

He looks down at the page and realizes he's torn through it by scratching out the name. He picks up the paper and retreads it, hands trembling. Memories of blue eyes and ruffled dark hair flash through his mind. In a fit of rage he crumples the letter and throws it. He collapses to his knees, unaware he had stood up in the first place. A sob bubbles up from his chest and into his throat. He drops his head in his hands and lets his long-overdue tears fall from his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, god, Cas, I'm so sorry. I never- you weren't supposed to stay with me. You rent supposed to- to die. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He starts whispering his apology into his palms, his tears still falling.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and his heart jumps in hope. He looks up and blinks away the last of his tears. Kind blue eyes look at him from a face surrounded by dark hair.

"Are you okay?" Cassa asks him, concern lacing her voice.

"Y-yeah. Fine." His voice cracks slightly and he clears his throat. She gives him a sympathetic and understanding look before nodding.

"Come to bed soon." She turns and walks away, leaving him crouched on the floor, tears drying on his cheeks. He bows his head and sends the last prayer he will ever send.

"Hey Cas. I love you, and I just wanted you to know that. You probably can't hear this, but if you can, if by some miracle you're alive and you can hear my prayers, I needed you to hear that. And- just. Tell me, please, where was my fault? What was wrong with loving you? I'm sorry. For everything I put you through." He sighs and stands, turning off the lamp.

...

...

...

The sound of wings flapping fills the room after the door clicks shut. A figure stands there in the darkness, blue eyes glowing.

"I love you too, Dean."

The Angel Castiel smiles as he whispers the words of truth. He turns around and finds the crumpled letter, smoothing it out. He sets it in the middle of the desk, where Dean can easily find it, and flys away again. A single midnight black feather rests on top of the letter, the only sign that he was there.


	10. Ocean Waltz

**Hey... So this is another T&S inspired fic... Don't kill me? To be forewarned, my Creative Writing class said I made beaches depressing for them. **

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The dark grey water rears up, straining to meet the sky. But as before, and as it will always be, it falls before they touch. Instead, the salty brine kisses the sun-warmed sand, meeting for a brief instant before being torn away again. It is a dance well-rehearsed, an infinite cycle doomed to be forever repeated.

When the waves caress the shore again, two pairs of feet are caught in its path. One set runs forward with the wave as it is dragged back to it's waiting family, following the path of its eternal dance. The other set remains where they are, and when the next wave mets the shore the first set follows. The feet perform a poor mockery of the doomed dance of the wave.

If the wave could think, it would have thought something along the lines of, "Please let their dance do what mine cannot, the waves to the shore, as I so often wish." However, waves do not understand the ways of humans, and eventually the feet will part, their dance will end, as all dances do.

But the wave does not know this. It only know the dance. Reach for the sky, meet the sand, return to the sea. The dance will continue far into the future. But even this dance, one day, will end.


	11. You can't stay

**I wrote this after watching "I'm No Angel", as an extended scene after Dean tells him he can't stay. **

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"You can't stay."

The words ring in his ears, echoing around his head. He looks down at Cas, his face scrunched up I confusion and betrayal. Dean wishes he could take the words back, but they're out there now. Cas's eyes, so blue it hurts, stare into his green ones, unwavering. Dean clears his throat and looks away in shame.

"It's, uh, just that you've got all those Reapers and Angels after you, and we've already got Crowley and Kevin to look after. I, um, just think you'll be safer without us. We don't really have the best track record when it comes to keeping our friends safe." He explains, desperate for Cas to understand. Cas gives him a hard look.

"And this has nothing to do with Ezekiel possessing Sam?" He asks. Dean's eyes widen in a way he's sure would be funny in any other situation.

"W-what?" He stutters out.

"I'm human Dean, not blind." Cas says, giving Dean his best bitch-face. Dean decides that Sam and Cas should never be left alone together, for his own safety. "I died, Dean. Death himself came to get me, that is not something you forget. I know an Angel healed me, and the only one you would trust right now would be Ezekiel. Last time you talked to me, Sam was dying and Ezekiel was wounded. I assume that he plans to heal Sam from the inside, while also healing himself, correct?"

Dean blinks at him in shock.

"Um..." He trails off and Cas smiles knowingly.

"It is okay, I understand. He is only trying to ensure Sam's safety." Cas assures him softly.

"I don't want you to leave." Dean blurts. Cas smiles at him.

"I know."


	12. Just Kiss Already

**In which Sam speaks for Destiel shippers everywhere.**

* * *

Kiss.

No really, kiss.

Lean forward those extra few inches and kiss him.

No, don't look away! What are you doing?! God dammit! I have been sitting here, for years, being subjected to your sexual tension and it's killing me! It's not that big of a deal, trust me! I don't care that you're both dudes! And don't try and tell me that you've never been with a guy before, don't attempt to lie. C'mon dude, I've seen you checking guys out. And your obsession with Dr Sexy is bordering on creepy. Just admit you're bisexual, grab him by his trench coat and kiss him. It's that simple.

And you! Mister "Virgin Angel", you're not exempt from this either! You're just as guilty as "Sexually Repressed" over there. With the starring and the lack of personal space and the "I always come when you call" and the "We do share a more profound bond". Admit you're in love with him and kiss him!

I may not be the best with relationships, everyone I sleep with dies or turns out to be evil and dies, but you know what? At least I'm not too scared to say "I love you". You both have abandonment issues up the wazoo, I understand that. But Dean, Cas always comes back. Hell, he died and he came back, he's practically one of the family. And Cas, Dean stood by you even when both me and Bobby thought you were evil. (Which, okay, you were working with the bad guy, but that's not the point). You guys have one of the best relationships I've ever seen, and you don't even have a relationship! (Yet)

Okay, good. Eye contact is good. Keep up the eyesex. Nice, good, now lean in. Yeah, just like that. Little bit further. No, no! What are you doing?! Stop doing that! Keep leaning! KEEP LEANING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Dean, why did you stop? Cas, why did you let him stop? Why are you both looking at me? Do you want me to leave? I can leave if that makes you more comfortable. I'm leaving, look. This is me, walking out the door. You better kiss while I'm gone.

I hate you both.

Idiots.


End file.
